Always
by crazycat1895
Summary: Eight months ago Sherlock lost his friend and lover. He had tried it, but he couldn't stand it anymore. But then something happened that changed everything.
1. Chapter 1

**Always  
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**A/N:** Sherlock and John are in an established relationship. There was no fall and also no absent Sherlock in their past.

This was inspired by the wonderful film "A Single Man" starring Colin Firth. For the story it doesn't matter if you don't know the film. It's a brilliant film and I really love it.

**Many thanks for help and support to the wonderful yalublyutebya. I wouldn't have made it till here on my own.**

**I'd appreciate feedback, please let me know how you like it.**

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**Chapter 1**

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_Water. He's surrounded by water, he floats in water, weightless. But he can't breathe, he can't breathe. Where's the surface? Why can't he rise? He needs air!_

_Eyes. Dead eyes. John's dead eyes. They follow him everywhere_.

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Sherlock awoke with a muffled cry in his throat. He was drenched in sweat and he had kicked the sheets from the bed. It was always the same dream. Every time he closed his eyes he saw John, John's dead eyes staring at him.

As he opened his eyes he thought: 'still alive' and 'it's enough'. For eight months the awakening had hurt, as the cold realisation that he was still here settled down slowly. He had never been particularly pleased by waking up. He had never been someone who jumped out of bed to greet the day with a smile, like John. Only fools greet the day with a smile; he had always said so. Only fools shut themselves off from the simple truth that 'now' doesn't mean simply 'now'. A relentless reminder, one day after yesterday, one year after the last year, until at some point, sooner or later, suddenly, the time comes. John had always just laughed at him and then given him a kiss on the cheek.

It took some time in the morning until he transformed into Sherlock, until he corresponded in appearance and behaviour to what was expected of Sherlock. When he was dressed, and the last layer of polish was applied to the, now slightly stiff but quite perfect, Sherlock, he knew again which role he had to play.

When he looked into the mirror he didn't see a face, it was the expression of a dilemma. "Get through the goddamn day," he muttered at his reflection.

Pretty much melodramatic. On the other hand - his heart had been broken, and it felt as if he were drowning, couldn't breathe.

For the first time in his life there was no future. The days were passing in a haze, but he had decided that he would change that today.

...

He had written several letters. To Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade - Greg, he reminded himself with a half smile -, his mother. And the last one was for Mycroft, his Will and instructions for the funeral. There was no one else who would need a note. He had thought about Molly for a moment, but he suspected it would only make it worse for her. Also, he didn't know what he should have written to her.

The desk looked strange, so very tidy. He had tidied up the whole flat; Mrs. Hudson was very pleased, but also a bit concerned. She never gave up with her attempts to feed him up, always cooking and baking for him. But he wasn't hungry at all, never; he only ate to do her a favour. That would be over soon, soon he would be left in peace, soon …

His phone beeped. Sherlock's eyelids dropped down. The beep - he should have changed the tone, but he couldn't. Unbidden, the memories came back to him.

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_His phone beeped. Sherlock looked up from the microscope and furrowed his brows. John - no, he wouldn't call him only a few hours after what he'd said earlier. Lestrade would have sent a text if he needed his help. Mycroft! Sherlock's bad mood was getting worse. "What?" he shouted into the phone. His brother's voice was very quiet and calm. "Sherlock, there's been an accident. There was a storm, __a sudden front of bad weather ...," Mycroft cleared his throat. Then he continued to talk and Sherlock's hand went numb, he dropped the phone. A glass flask and several Petri dishes were knocked from the table and the various fluids mingled on the kitchen floor into an indefinable substance, bubbling quietly, as Sherlock's legs gave way._

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_.  
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_._

… he opened his eyes with a startled gasp and stared at his phone. It was Lestrade - Greg - who wanted him to come to the Yard. Probably Mrs. Hudson had raised the alarm: Sherlock had been _too_ quiet, _too_ neat, _too_ nice the last two days, he knew.

...

With his feet on the desk Lestrade sat back in his chair, fiddling with his mobile. Mrs. Hudson was worried about Sherlock again, so he had promised that he would watch him closely for a while. The easiest way to occupy him was still a case and therefore he had sent him a text. Sally came in to bring him some files. They didn't have any big or difficult cases on right now, but they had started to search for old, unsolved cases months ago, so in times like this, when it seemed to be particularly bad, they had something to distract Sherlock with. Sally gave him a wry smile - she still didn't like Sherlock, but she pitied him.

...

Sherlock hailed a cab. He didn't like it anymore - one more thing he didn't like anymore - because every time he turned his head there was John at the edge of his view, merely sitting next to him, watching the passing city. But they would ask questions, if he refused to take a cab, and that would be worse, if even possible.

But the worst thing was that he couldn't go anywhere to grieve. There was no grave where he could yell at John, where he could ask him 'why?'._' Why? For heaven's sake, why did you have to go there, John? It was a bloody fishing boat, why was that so important? Why? Just because that was something you had wanted to do since you were a kid. You've been to Afghanistan; didn't you have enough adventures there? Stupid! So stupid! Why did I let you go?'_ Sherlock hadn't kissed him goodbye, they had argued, John had been angry at him when he had left. Sherlock blinked, gnashing his teeth. And now he had nothing left.

The boat had capsized in a storm, shattered at the coast; none of the crew was found, and the only passenger remained missing. Of course Mycroft had investigated, but without any result. The current at the accident site was strong and had dragged everything out to the open sea. Sherlock had studied every possible opportunity for weeks, but with no success either. John was missing, gone, presumed dead. Sherlock winced at that thought.

A few minutes later the cab stopped at the Yard and Sherlock rose with the usual blank expression on his face. When he arrived at Lestrade's office he was ready to focus on the case. It had been two weeks since they last saw each other, and Lestrade was visibly shocked when he took Sherlock in. "Sherlock! What the hell did you do? You look terrible!" Sherlock didn't even look up. His hands and eyes were already occupied with the file he had taken from the desk while he sat down. He read for a while in silence. When he recognized the correlations, the case was actually quite simple; Sherlock solved it in no time.

Sally brought him tea and he fought the urge to comment. Sherlock drank the tea, made his deductions, and then he left. Greg tried to persuade him to have a drink with him in the evening and eventually Sherlock said yes, just to stop him asking.

Afterwards Sherlock headed for St. Bart's in search of Molly. The DI had told him that there was an interesting corpse, so he went down to check it out. He didn't want to disappoint anyone today.

Molly was in the lab, comparing slides with different blood samples under a microscope. When he entered the room she nearly jumped. "Oh, hello Sherlock. Oh, you look terrible! Oh, no, I don't mean it … I mean … I don't … ." Her nervous little voice trailed off.

"Molly, you shouldn't do small talk, doesn't suit you."

"Oh, ok. Would you like a coffee?" she asked shyly. Sherlock gave her a small smile. "Yes, thank you." Molly stumbled out of the lab. Meanwhile he looked at the various samples she was examining until she came back. "Black, two sugars," she quoted him with an uncertain smile when she gave him the coffee, and then she turned again. "I prepared the body for you, if you want ..."

"Thank you", he took a sip, "I'll have a look at it." He hesitated for a moment. "Molly, you've always been very kind." With that he headed to the morgue, leaving a stunned Molly.

One hour later he left St. Bart's. At a small shop he bought cigarettes and a bottle of whiskey. John had hated it when he'd smoked, but who would complain now? The whiskey he'd bought had been John's favourite brand; usually Sherlock didn't drink much, but today was a very special day.

...

At the door of the shop a young man stumbled and bumped into Sherlock. With a loud crash the bottle shattered on the pavement, having slipped from Sherlock's hand. "I'm sorry," the stranger was embarrassed. "I'll get you a new one, it was my fault." He disappeared into the shop before Sherlock could answer. Sherlock attempted to save the cigarettes from the pile of shards, but they were completely soaked and he threw them away. The shopkeeper came to clear away the broken glass, and Sherlock absently apologized for the mess, just as the other man came back. He was about Sherlock's size, in his mid twenties, with black, short hair, tanned skin and he was probably a Spaniard, judging by his accent.

With an apologetic smile he pushed the bag into Sherlock's arms. Then he pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket - apparently it wasn't lost on him that Sherlock had been forced to throw away his cigarettes. "Would you like one?" Sherlock shook his head, but then stopped. Why not? He had just bought some. He nodded. "Yes, yes, why not? Been a long time since I had my last." He took the cigarette and the man gave him a light. With closed eyes he inhaled deeply.

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_... at the morgue with Mycroft - Christmas - Irene was dead ..._

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_._

His eyes flew open. No, she wasn't dead, it had been a fake. But John - John hadn't faked his death.

The other man looked at him curiously, had said something Sherlock hadn't heard. "Excuse me?" he replied.

"Carlos, my name is Carlos. You asked for it."

Had he? He couldn't remember and threw the cigarette away. "Yes, sorry, I'm Sherlock."

"Are you ok?" Carlos asked. "You look a bit confused. Maybe we should sit for a moment. Would you like a coffee?"

Sherlock was so amazed that he followed him without complaining to a nearby coffee-shop, where they sat down. "Can I have another one?" he asked with a look at the pack of cigarettes, and Carlos offered him one with a smile. The cigarette soothed him, why hadn't he thought of that earlier? Now he watched Carlos more closely. He was handsome, smart, with a well built body; and he was flirting with Sherlock with his black eyes. Sherlock looked straight into those dark eyes, but all he saw were John's beautiful blue eyes._ … _

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_He was floating, drifting away, drowning … _

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Sherlock gasped. Carlos frowned at him and he tried to calm him. "I'm ok, it's just … a hard day for me today."

"A man like you? What could be so hard for a man like you?" Carlos asked, smiling at him encouragingly.

A sad smile crossed Sherlock's face. "I lost my - love."

"My mum always said 'Lovers are like buses, if you wait a bit, the next is sure to come soon'. Surely a man like you has plenty of offers."

Sherlock didn't answer. They smoked their cigarettes in silence and then he stood up. "I've got to go."

"Perhaps we could meet again?" Carlos tried. "I would like to see you again."

"No, I'm - not staying in London, but ... thank you." He was a bit bemused when he walked home slowly.

Only ten minutes later a black sedan stopped next to him and a door opened. Sherlock sighed. Mycroft. He wondered why it had taken so long.

"Hello, little brother. How are you?"

"Oh please, Mycroft. Is this really necessary? What do you want?"

"Sherlock, I am concerned. Lestrade called me and said you look miserable; and Miss Hooper was very irritated. And then I saw you at a coffee-shop, smoking, with another man. What does that mean?" In Mycroft's face he could read sincere worry.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I'm ok, really, Mycroft. But I have decided that something has to change, I can't go on like this." That was not a lie, he added for himself, he wanted to make a change today.

"And the whiskey?"

"You've already talked to Greg; you know he'll come around for a drink tonight." Sherlock was getting impatient now. "Stop the car; I want to walk the rest."

Mycroft nodded and gave the driver a sign to stop. "Take care, little brother."

Once Sherlock had got out, he turned back to Mycroft. "Thank you, Mycroft." Then he went away.

Now Mycroft was worried, seriously worried. He took his phone and started to make some calls.

...

Sherlock opened the front door and Mrs. Hudson dashed out of her flat. "Sherlock, dear, I made some chocolate biscuits, would you like to try them?"

"You know I love your biscuits, how could I resist." He struggled for a smile. Mrs. Hudson seemed to be relieved and he followed her into her flat. They had tea and talked for a while about Mrs. Turner next door, and she told him the latest rumours and the gossip, until Sherlock thought it was enough.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but I have to leave. DI Lestrade is coming around."

"Oh, really? Do you have another case? What is it? I haven't read anything in the papers." Now she was frankly curious.

"No, we're just having a drink." He lifted the bag and she gave him a bright smile. "I'm so glad you're better, my dear." No doubt she took it as a good sign that he planned to see Lestrade after work.

"Good night, Mrs. Hudson."

...

Slowly he walked up the stairs to his flat. It was so quiet up there and it felt so cold without John, cold and empty, like his flat. He hadn't changed anything, hadn't removed any of John's things, but it hadn't helped; his flat no longer felt like home.

To escape the silence he put on a CD; 'Vocalise' by Rachmaninoff, it had been one of John's favourites. He stood by the fireplace and listened to the wistful sigh of David Garrett's violin with closed eyes. He had packed away his own violin months ago, hiding it away along with the music stand in a cabinet. At first he had tried to compose something, as he had done after Irene's putative death years ago. Back then it had helped him. How long had that been now? Fourteen - no, fifteen years - but it hadn't worked this time, he hadn't been able to elicit one single note from the violin, so eventually he had given up. With a sigh he turned around, his gaze on John's armchair.

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_Sherlock is sitting in his armchair, reading a forensic journal. John is sitting across from him in his own chair, reading a novel, something about a hitchhiker; on the cover he can see a man in a green dressing gown and on the back 'Don't panic' is written in big letters. How silly._ _John suddenly looks up, their eyes meet and Sherlock returns John's smile. "What are you reading?" Without a comment John holds up the book, so Sherlock can read the title: 'The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy'. He frowns, that is really silly._ _"A true masterpiece of literature," he teases good-naturedly. John merely sighs, he closes his eyes for a moment and listens to the quiet sounds of a violin and a piano, hovering through the room, a __gentle smile playing around his lips__. "What could be better than this, now, here with you, this moment?" His bare toes rub on Sherlock's sock-clad feet; his gaze is warm and loving. "I mean, if I were to die now, then that would be ok." Sherlock's eyes become serious, "For me that would be anything but ok, so shut up." A wide grin spreads over John's face, "Good answer." While Sherlock's gaze still lingers thoughtfully at his face, he turns back to his book and again there is the familiar amicable silence._

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In the bedroom Sherlock had sorted his documents, and put his keys and his wallet next to them. He had arranged everything on the dresser in front of the window. The suit he wanted to wear hung on the wardrobe door. Nothing should be left to chance, or Mycroft. At last he added the letters.

Then he went to the little safe in the living room and opened it. It wasn't John's gun. He would have preferred that one, but it had confiscated by Mycroft months ago. So he had bought another one on the black market - he still had his contacts from his homeless network. The gun wasn't as good as John's was, but he was sure he wouldn't fail at this distance.

As he went to close the safe, he saw a photo peeking out upside down from under some old notebooks. He picked it up, thinking it had slipped out of one of the books. It hit him like a punch in the gut as he turned it around and he had to sit down. John beamed at him; it was an older picture, it looked like it was taken at one of their first joint cases, probably Greg had given it to John later. Why was it in the safe? Sherlock looked at the books more closely. Ah, John's old notebooks, and right there, 'A Study in Pink'. They had barely known each other for more than twenty four hours. John and his ridiculous titles, Sherlock had to smile involuntarily.

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_"Are you all right?"_

_"Yes, of course I'm all right."_

_"You have just killed a man." Sherlock looks at him closely._

_"Yes, I … that's true, isn't it?" John smiles at him while Sherlock watches him carefully. "But he wasn't a very nice man."_

_"No. No, he wasn't really, was he?"_

_"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie."_

_Sherlock chuckles, "That's true, he was a bad cabbie. You should have seen the route he took us to get here!"_

_Now John giggles, and Sherlock smiles. "Stop! Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene! Stop it."_

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_"And who the hell are you?"_

_"I'm his doctor."_

_"And only a fool argues with his doctor."_

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Sherlock ran his thumb gently across the photo, then he stood up, slipped the photo in the inside pocket of his jacket and locked the safe again. _My doctor … you were so self-confident, _he thought_, how was it possible that you were always so confident, so certain? _He himself wasn't confident about anything. That hadn't gotten better in the last eight months.

Should he lie down on the sofa? Or sit down in his chair? Perhaps John's chair? He tried everything, even his bed, but he was reluctant to do it there. The shower? He tried, but slipped and almost broke his foot. How could it be possible that it was so difficult to find the right place to shoot himself? It couldn't be that complicated!

Sherlock gradually became irritated and angry. It was John's fault, all of this. Normally he just would have asked John. Without realising how irrational this idea was, he stared at the gun in his hand and was about to throw it across the flat, when the doorbell rang - Lestrade. He had quite forgotten their appointment. Actually, it should have been all over by now. The bell rang again.

"YES!" he shouted, "I'm coming!" Upset, he rushed down the stairs, but when he opened the door he froze. It wasn't the DI, it was Mycroft standing in front of him, and his face was ashen. He had never seen his brother so shaken, not even when John was … gone. A cold shiver ran down his spine; fear grabbed him seeing Mycroft this way. His throat was tight, his voice only a hoarse croak. "Mycroft, what happened?"

"John … we found John."


	2. Chapter 2

**And again many thanks to the wonderful yalublyutebya .  
**

**Please let me know how you like it.**

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**Chapter 2**

It was cold, so bloody cold. He opened his eyes and found himself on a sandy beach, his clothes were soaked and icy water washed over him. He tried to move, away from the water, from the wetness and the cold, but it was hard, too hard in fact; he only managed to crawl a few feet before he became unconscious again.

The next time he opened his eyes he was shivering, but there was no water and no sand anymore. He lay in a bed, was hot and cold at the same time and someone was giving him cold compresses. 'Fever' - it shot through his head, before he passed out again. A few hours later the fever abated slowly and finally he fell into a deep and restful sleep.

It took him a few more days until he regained his strength, so he could pay more attention to his surroundings. He was in an old fisherman's house and the man who lived there called himself 'Mike the Fish'. At John's blank look he told him that there were a few chaps called Mike living on the island and he got his name from his passion for fishing. Mike talked a lot but did not necessarily expect a response, like he was accustomed to being alone. He also explained that they were at one of the smaller Channel Islands where only a few people lived. There was no doctor on the island, but Mike was one of a small team of well-trained first responders, so he had been able to take care of John without further help when he had found him half-frozen on the beach. The people here were accustomed to taking care of themselves; everything coming from outside, including the authorities, was eyed with suspicion and caution.

He had suffered no serious injuries and recovered quickly once the fever was gone. Although Mike had talked a lot during the first days, he'd barely ever spoken directly to him, and if he did, it was very gently. But Mike finally had to give up his hope that he would start to talk by himself, so he asked the fatal question: "What is your name, my friend?"

And there he was, sitting on the bed with shaking hands, his right leg and his left shoulder were aching, and he hadn't got a clue who he was. "I … I don't know. I think I was on a fishing boat, but I don't think that I'm a fisherman. But - I can't remember. I don't know my name - or who I am." Now he had spoken it out loud for the first time, but the world continued spinning around, nothing had happened.

Mike had already thought of something like that and nodded mindfully. He'd watched the man very closely in the last few days to try to decide what to do. The stranger seemed to be anxious, but at the same time he radiated a certain calmness and self-assurance. Mike liked him and his deliberate way of speaking. Not a word too much, just to fill the silence, and the silence was never uncomfortable with him, quite the contrary. Mike would have preferred not to ask him, but he had to get an idea what was going on in his head.

Of course he had seen the man begin to tremble, rubbing his bad leg unconsciously, shoulders tensing, but he had to do this. At least once they had to talk about it. "Do you have an idea where you come from? Guernsey perhaps? Any idea? You've got an impressive scar at your shoulder that looks like a gunshot wound. Nothing to forget easily. - You're not a smuggler, are you?"

He gave Mike a startled look. A smuggler? No, he didn't think so, but the scar ... he had no idea.

"Ok, don't mind the smuggler, was just a thought. But we need a name for you. Any suggestion?"

He shook his head.

"What about Paul?" Mike asked him. "Once I knew a guy who had short blonde hair like you, called Paul. Moreover there is actually no other Paul on the Island, so it's a good name."

He nodded hesitantly. It wasn't the right name, he was sure - sure, bollocks, how could he be sure about anything? But at least it was as good as any name, wasn't it? Thus the matter seemed to be done for Mike. "All right, so it's Paul. When you feel better you should get up and get some fresh air. If you need anything, I'll be in the garden." And he was gone.

After Mike had gone 'Paul' sat on his bed, motionless for long moments, thinking about their brief conversation. Was that it? Was that all? Mike didn't inquire anymore? He didn't want to take him to the police, was happy just let him stay here? Paul didn't understand that at all.

Distraught and relieved at the same time, he finally got dressed and went out. The garden actually was more of a field, as it turned out, where Mike cultivated various vegetables. Paul sat down on the grass, enjoying the sun on his face; and for the first time in days, he was not afraid of tomorrow.

Two weeks later Mike and Paul were working in the garden. Mike had never asked Paul about anything after that first time. He didn't want to rush him to do something or to go somewhere else. To be honest, he liked Paul, even if he knew nothing about him. Paul had lost his memories, but Mike was sure he had an upright personality. He decided to give him as much time as he needed.

Surely Paul would remember one day; he could stay until then, if he wanted. Mike didn't trust the authorities and therefore he had no intension of taking Paul to the police, if he didn't want to. There was no police station anyway, they would have of take the boat to Guernsey, and Paul was still afraid of the sea. At no time did either of them mention the possibility of a simple phone call, which was at the same time a relief and disconcerting for both men. So Paul lived at Mike's house and helped him with his work as best he could, but he never left the house and the garden, and he wasn't talking a lot.

Mike's house was secluded, very quiet, which gave Paul the necessary peace to handle the shock. Paul wasn't sure what to do, but was thinking constantly about it. Mike didn't push him to do anything. He didn't understand that, but found it very reassuring. The islanders really were something very special.

Should he go to the police? And what would happen then? They probably would find out who he was and would bring him home. But … he didn't want to leave this house, this peaceful place. He had a feeling as if he'd searched for such a peace for quite a while. And at the same time he felt restless, unsettled, as if he were used to run all day long. His hands had calluses, physical work then, but not too hard. They could also do very fine, precise work. What kind of job might he have had? Maybe he'd been a criminal, maybe not, but when he thought about the police it felt strange, almost familiar, accustomed. Maybe he was a police officer?

Uncertainty was his constant companion in the very first days. It wasn't normal, that he didn't want to know who he was, right? Wasn't he supposed to put all the wheels in motion to find out everything as soon as possible? Someone would surely miss him and search for him? Or had his life been so horrible that he wouldn't want go back? Was there actually someone missing him, or has he had been all alone? Was he married? Perhaps he had children? Guilt spread through him at the thought of people who might not even exist. He wasn't wearing a wedding ring, so probably not married. Was there somebody weeping about his loss?

His clothes were nothing special, no brand products with the exception of the shoes. He had no papers with him, no money, no ID. Was he on the run from someone, the police? But without money? And Mike - didn't that make him liable to prosecution when he brought him here instead of bringing him to the police? There were so many questions, but he didn't want to think about them anymore; and he didn't want to go to the police, and he didn't want to talk about it, and he really did not want to know. He became a master of pushing it aside, lived only in the here and now, sealed completely off from the world. This worked very well with Mike because his TV was broken weeks ago and the newspaper came only every few days, and then Paul usually didn't read it. He wasn't interested in the world, not at all.

The days passed by, they grew into weeks and the weeks into months. Mike and Paul had become close friends and developed a daily routine of work in the garden and in the house. Mike went fishing regularly; Paul didn't even go near the beach. In the evening they often sat together, Mike telling old stories of the island or just reading. It was a tranquil life, until one day Paul was tidying away an old newspaper and his gaze fell on the headline and the photo below:"Sherlock Holmes reveals serial killer", with a picture of a dark-haired man wearing a deerstalker. Why did the picture and the headline leave him so shaken? He read the article, but it didn't tell him much more. From that day on he got uneasy.

Then the dreams began. He was always running in his dreams, running after a dark, tall man in a long coat. He couldn't recognise the man, but he was sure it was the one from the paper, with the dark curly hair. Why was he running after him? Was he chasing him? But he was a detective or something like that, wasn't he? The newspaper had declared that he had caught a serial killer, he'd helped the police, was on the side of good. So why would John be chasing him? Was he following the man? Why? Which side was Paul on? He began to feel restless and started to wander around the island; soon he knew every path, every stone and every house.

There were no cars on the Island; instead, the people got around on tractors and quad bikes. One day, a quad driver had an accident, and Paul went along by chance. The driver apparently had run off the road and overturned. He had passed out next to the road, but there wasn't anyone to help. As if on autopilot and without thinking about it, Paul began to treat the wounded man, checking his respiration and heart rate, examining the head wound. One arm was broken and he checked it, while the driver was still unconscious. He worked quickly and efficiently, as if he had never done anything else. A second quad-driver, who had left when he saw that Paul was taking care of the wounded man, had brought one of the first responders, Steve, who now helped Paul with cleaning and bandaging the numerous abrasions and stabilising the broken arm with protections. Meanwhile the driver was regaining consciousness. Paul talked to him briefly, he examined his reflexes and the main organ systems by inspection and palpation then he was satisfied; the driver didn't seem to have any other injuries.

Steve and he had barely exchanged a word during the treatment, but when Paul got up, he saw Steve and Mike talking. When Mike came to him afterwards he grinned: "You never mentioned that you're a doctor." Some of the bystanders turned their heads and he heard several times 'Doctor? He's a doctor?' He looked up a bit uncertainly. Yes, he'd acted like a doctor, but that had happened somehow quite automatically, he still didn't remember. "Steve says you've patched up our Billy excellently, as far as possible on the spot here," continued Mike. "Perhaps you've worked at a hospital, emergencies and so, you know."

Steve joined them and shook Paul's hand. "That was really good work Doc, have you been in the Army? The way you dealt with the arm, that's something I haven't seen anywhere else." Paul just stared at him, in his head everything spun. 'Hospital', 'doctor', 'army', what else? He did not remember! He wanted to scream at Mike and Steve and all the others who had gathered little by little to the injured young man, scream into their faces: "I don't know!" Everything he had repressed and suppressed successfully for such a long time, came up again now, the fear, the uncertainty; panic rose in him. Like a hunted animal, he looked around, searching for a way to escape. Where did all these people suddenly come from? Since he'd been on the island Paul had never seen so many people in one spot. A couple of boys ran through the crowd. A father called his son: "John! John, come over here!"

That was the moment when the world stopped turning around. The first memory struck him with the force of a sledgehammer. Paul's mouth fell open. "John," he whispered in astonishment, "John, that's my name, that's me." He turned to Mike, who watched him with concern. The entire colour drained from his face and it was like in slow motion when he opened his mouth. "I _am_ a doctor, Doctor John Watson." Then his eyes grew wide, he mouthed a soundless word:"Sherlock." And like a wave his memories washed over him, overwhelmed him. Mike and Steve responded simultaneously and held him as his knees buckled.

From there on it was all in a blur. They brought him to the White House Hotel and called the Guernsey Police Service. Three hours later he heard a helicopter. Mycroft then.

Sherlock's legs gave in, he sagged on the stairs, tried to speak, but his throat was too tight and he just couldn't say a word. Finally he managed a shaken "Where?"

Mycroft took his arm and pushed him into the waiting car. "On one of the Channel Islands. I don't know any more; I just got the report that he's alive. Come on now!"

They drove in absolute silence. Sherlock's mind raced, but he wasn't able to focus on a single thought. John was alive, he couldn't believe it. After all this time, so long … But Mycroft wouldn't have told him if he wasn't absolutely sure. He glanced over to his older brother, who stared at his mobile as he exchanged message after message. So it must be true. But what had happened to John in all those months, where had he been all this time? And why hadn't he tried to get in touch? Mycroft had merely said that he was alive. Was he possibly hurt? Kidnapped, as Sherlock had always feared? Possibly tortured, injured? One horror scenario after the other ran through his head, until a warm hand settled down on his trembling arm, bringing him back to reality. His gaze focused on Mycroft, who only shook his head slowly. "Stop it, Sherlock," he said softly, "He's fine. I've just been told that he is obviously mentally and physically in good health. We'll get further details when he arrives in ... about 34 minutes."

Sherlock calmed down a bit, but a new terrible thought crept into his mind. What if John hadn't wanted to be found? What if he had hidden purposely? From him, Sherlock. And again the questions were racing in his head, round and round the garden, like a teddy bear, but he couldn't find an answer. He felt dizzy and sick when he suddenly realised that he had no idea where they were going. Mycroft had just talked about John's 'arrival'. Sherlock glanced out the window, ah, obviously Heathrow. His gaze shifted back to Mycroft. "Right," Mycroft confirmed, "Heathrow, I sent a helicopter to pick him up." Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing.

John looked out of the helicopter at the lights of London and remembered his flight to Buckingham Palace many years ago. He shook his head, it was all like a bad dream, but he wasn't sure if he was now awake or not. What was reality? What a dream? The last eight months - eight months! - or his previous life, which he had only recalled a few hours ago. And Sherlock! His hands began to tremble again. What would he say? What would he do? Would he be at the airport? Or would it just be Mycroft to tell him Sherlock wouldn't come to see him.

Why had it taken so long for him to remember? Why hadn't he recognised Sherlock's picture in the paper? Hadn't Sherlock searched for him? And what about Mycroft and his minions? So many questions, so many 'whys', John's head ached, he squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers. He felt sick and numb and anxious and he didn't know what he should expect.

As the helicopter landed, he could see the empty airfield through the window. By now it was dark, but the airport, of course, was brightly lit. John climbed from the helicopter, wondering where he should go now, when a black sedan rolled towards him. Alone in the headlights of the car, he felt even more vulnerable, completely exposed. His hands were trembling so much now that he clenched his fists to hide it. But if - if Sherlock was in the car, he would have noticed it anyway - if he was.

One of the car doors opened and Sherlock got out, all pale and so thin. His eyes fixed on John, who couldn't move, as he got slowly closer. When Sherlock reached him he raised a hand and his fingertips brushed over John's cheek with a feather-light touch. His mouth opened, but he couldn't speak; his eyes were tracking all over John's face now. John tilted his head, his eyes fell shut and he nuzzled his face into Sherlock's hand. The taller man pulled him close and kept him in a firm embrace. John's head sank onto Sherlock's chest, his arms locked around him, and a great peace came over him.

For several minutes they stood almost motionless, clinging to each other. Sherlock's hands crossed Johns back, his shoulders. He gently turned John's face towards him, caressing it. His fingers ran through John's blond hair. It was longer and brighter than before, and he had a full beard, slightly darker than his hair. John buried his hands in Sherlock's dark curls, their eyes fixed on each other, and none of them noticed the tears that flowed from both. Eventually Sherlock brought out a hoarse "John", but that was all. John mouthed Sherlock's name, but he couldn't speak.

And finally they kissed, a first, delicate touch of lips, as if they still couldn't believe it. Sherlock cupped John's face with his hands, caressing his cheeks and his lips with his thumb. He had to examine him closely, again and again, to make sure that he was really there; he needed to touch him. It was still unbelievable to him. Sherlock covered John's face with light kisses, and then he embraced him once again and held him tight as if he would never release him again.

Suddenly Mycroft stood beside them and cleared his throat; this brought them back to reality. "I'm sorry that I have to interrupt you, but the airfield will still be needed this evening, and the car is waiting." With a nonchalant movement he gave them some handkerchiefs which they accepted, a little confused and distracted. Mycroft allowed himself a relieved sigh and smiled at them. "Gentlemen, if you'd be so kind."

They cleaned their faces and followed him to the car. Sherlock had grabbed John's hand and wouldn't let him go again, even in the car. They still hadn't spoken to each other, but that didn't seem to be so important at the moment.

It was important that Sherlock could hold John's hands. It was important that he could watch John. He was afraid to wake up at any minute and find that everything was just a dream. His throat instantaneously closed up, he couldn't breathe. In a sudden panic he began to breathe faster, trying to fill his lungs with air, but he noticed that he began to feel dizzy.

John awoke from his torpor. He had been overwhelmed with his feelings, but now the doctor reappeared and took over. Sherlock was hyperventilating and stared at him with wide eyes. "Sherlock! Sherlock, I'm here, it's all right. You have to breathe." With gentle force John pushed Sherlock's head down and held it between his knees, while he stroked his neck and head softly. The whole time he spoke soothingly to him until Sherlock's breathing returned to normal and John loosened his grip on his neck.

A shy smile crept onto John's face. "It's all right, love, I'm here, and I'll stay here." Sherlock sat up slowly; he still felt a little dazed. Immediately he grasped John's hands again and stared at them as if he still couldn't believe it. He looked into John's eyes, those vibrant blue eyes, not staring and dead as in his dreams, but alive and beaming. "John, you're back, you're alive," he whispered, as if he was afraid that one loud word would destroy everything.


	3. Chapter 3

**And again many thanks to the wonderful yalublyutebya .  
Today's my birthday (September 1st), so I'd like to give you something nice, enjoy yourself. :)  
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**Chapter 3  
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Mycroft brought them home to Baker Street. "I'm coming over tomorrow, and then we'll talk," he said to John when he got out of the car. John nodded briefly with clenched teeth. He wasn't sure, but it sounded like a threat to him.

In the hallway they were met by Mrs. Hudson. At first she was just looking at John, silently, her hands over her mouth. John hugged her gently, which was not that easy, because Sherlock didn't want to release his hand voluntarily. "Oh, John! It's so wonderful that you're back." She wiped a tear from her eye. "We've missed you so."

"Don't cry, Mrs. H., you know that doesn't help." John tried a smile, but he failed thoroughly. At least he had made Mrs. Hudson smile though. "Oh boys, you're so..." She didn't get any further because Sherlock was glaring at her, clearly losing his patience. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but we will not disturb you any longer." She opened her mouth to answer him, but when she saw his eyes, her mouth fell shut immediately. She could talk to them tomorrow or in a few days. "Ok boys, good night then." Before she turned she took John's hand again. "I'm so glad, John. It's so good to have you back here." With that she went back into her flat.

They made their way upstairs and then stood awkwardly in the living room for a moment. Sherlock stood behind John, still holding his hand, as John silently scanned the flat, taking everything in. Then he whispered softly, so that Sherlock could barely hear it: "You haven't changed anything."

Sherlock couldn't speak; he couldn't trust his voice, so he just nodded slightly. When John turned to him, he looked at Sherlock with wide, surprised eyes. Those eyes ... Sherlock was lost in those blue eyes. He grabbed John's shoulder with his free hand to take a hold and steady himself. He'd thought he would never see those eyes again, so blue, so … alive.

John raised one hand and cupped Sherlock's cheek. "And you've tidied. You never tidy." Sherlock blushed and his eyes dropped. Of course he heard the unspoken question lingering in the air, the 'Why?'. A nervous gaze flashed to the bedroom. What would John think when he saw the documents on the dresser? The letters! He had to make them disappear, they needed to be destroyed! And the gun! Where had he put the gun when Mycroft rang the bell? He started to panic and he looked around frantically. John was not allowed to see, was not allowed to know about that.

John frowned at him. "Sherlock, what is it?" Their eyes met but John couldn't read Sherlock's expression; he seemed to be very nervous, almost anxious. John was confused. If anyone should be nervous, it should be him. After all, he was the one who had been away for eight months without doing anything in order to be found. For whatever reasons - he didn't know, didn't understand it himself, and he was not very proud of what he had done. He thought he should say something, but what?

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I ... I ...," he closed his eyes desperately and swallowed hard. He had no idea what to say. When he forced his eyes open again, he looked straight into Sherlock's gray eyes, staring at him intently, still not believing what they saw.

Sherlock had started to tremble, his whole body was shaking, and when John took him in his arms, his self-control crumbled. This day had been too much, and his knees buckled beneath him. John held him tight, sliding down with him slowly, until both of them knelt, tightly entwined, on the carpet, their coats still on. Sherlock buried his face in John's neck and let his tears run free for the first time since he was eight years old. He was shaken by heavy sobs, while John caressed his back soothingly. Eventually John realised that his face was also wet and he was shaking, too.

Both of them were completely exhausted, and when John calmed down a little and Sherlock's breath had evened out, he fetched some tissues. Then he helped Sherlock to stand up, took off their coats and led him to the bedroom. He undressed them both down to their underwear and brought Sherlock to bed, and then he lay down and embraced him. Sherlock immediately clung to him like a drowning man and John stroked his hair, hoping to soothe him.

Although he had only two minutes ago wanted nothing more than to get some sleep, John couldn't get any rest now. He'd never seen Sherlock like this; this was not the Sherlock he knew; Sherlock was neither so clingy, nor so ... desperate. What had he done to him? His only hope was that Sherlock would forgive him when he came to his senses tomorrow. He didn't know how to explain the last eight month, not only to Sherlock, but also to Mycroft. And he wasn't sure who was more difficult to handle.

Sherlock had fallen asleep, breathing quietly on John's chest, but John's mind was spinning around. He was still confused that his memories had come back so suddenly. However, he was still missing the last few hours before the accident. One of Mycroft's men had explained to him what had happened when he was brought to Heathrow, but he still couldn't remember. There were some indistinct memories about a boat, but John wasn't even sure if they were his own or just something he had heard about. Apart from that he was missing the whole day, but he was told that was rather normal.

Mycroft had arranged some thorough examinations at the hospital in the next few days, although John thought it was utter nonsense; after all, the accident had been a few months ago. Eight months. Eight months, while Sherlock had thought he was dead. He tried to imagine how he would've felt and shuddered. No, he couldn't really imagine, and he didn't want to.

He held Sherlock even tighter and pressed his lips onto the dark curls. "My Sherlock", he whispered. He wondered what had happened, why his subconscious had not wanted him to go home. But this here, this was his life. He owed Sherlock so much; he wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him. Back when they'd first met, after he'd been released from the Army, Sherlock had come along just in time to get him out of his depression, had saved his life with his sheer existence. His life was so much more exciting, more dangerous, more thrilling since he'd known Sherlock, it was exactly what he had needed. Of course, sometimes it was exhausting and frustrating when Sherlock was miles ahead with his mind, but over the many years they'd been together now, they had always managed to find one another again. Sherlock had learned to wait for him, sometimes; and John had learned to let Sherlock run ahead. He loved him just the way he was; otherwise it wouldn't be Sherlock.

Why was he thinking about these things now? John wasn't sure; there was something, something important, but he couldn't figure it out. Finally, he fell into an uneasy sleep and dreamed of hunting through London, wild shootouts and digging in a garden full of vegetables.

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_Water. He's surrounded by water, he floats in water, weightless. But he can't breathe, he can't breathe. Where's the surface? Why can't he rise? He needs air!_

_Eyes. Dead eyes. John's dead eyes._

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A strangled cry woke John. Sherlock lay on his back, eyes wide, his hair plastered to his forehead, and he was panting.

"Sherlock ... Sherlock, I'm here, Sherlock, it's all right." John gently touched his arm, but Sherlock jerked back, startled.

"I'm here; it's all right, love. I'm here," he whispered softly into Sherlock's ear without touching him this time, he didn't want to scare him any more.

Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled deeply a few times before he opened them again and looked at John, who drew himself up onto his elbow. Sherlock's hand touched John's face, his thumb sliding slowly over his lips which opened of their own accord. "John."

He had had the same dream, again. The same dream he had had for eight months now; the same dream, which he had tried to escape yesterday. But John wasn't dead, his eyes were not dead, he was here, with him. Why was he still having that dream?

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_They were arguing, again. It was about the boat ride. Sherlock simply didn't understand why John really wanted to take a tour on this fishing boat, mainly because bad weather was forecast and Sherlock was worried. He had not told John about his worries. Why should he have done? It was obvious! After so many years he surely didn't have to explain every trifle. Pouting, he had withdrawn into the kitchen, sitting at the microscope. Only when John drew his coat on and turned around in the doorway, did Sherlock stop and lift his head._

_Very calm and with a voice so quiet, almost casually, so that Sherlock looked up alerted, John finally spoke to him. "I will go on this goddamn fishing boat now, and when I come back we will talk about where we go from here. I can't stand it this way any longer."_

"_What do you mean?" Sherlock asked with a frown._

_"I mean exactly what I've said." John sighed. "I can not and I will not go on like this, Sherlock." He shook his head slightly. "Sometimes I wonder how you can bear to be with such a silly, simple, boring man like me. And then I wonder whether I can demand this of you any longer." His face was gray and he looked at Sherlock with a strange expression, before turning and walking down the stairs._

_Sherlock jumped to his feet. "John ... John?" What was that all of a sudden? What kind of nonsense was John talking about? And why had he looked at him like this? Had he missed something? Sherlock knew that this happened to him again and again in interpersonal relationships. John's eyes - there had been no anger or suppressed rage in his eyes, just ... nothing. As if John had given up. Had he? Had he given up on him? Would John abandon him? "JOHN!" But he only heard the front door slamming._

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Yes, he knew why the dream hadn't stopped yet. Because his fear was still there, his fear of losing John. Did John know what had happened that day? Did he remember their fight? He had to try to keep John; after all, he had come back to him.

"Sherlock!"

He flinched and looked startled at John, who called his name for the umpteenth time.

"Sherlock, stop! Whatever you're thinking, just stop it!" John had watched the change in Sherlock's face during the last seconds, as he stared into the void. He didn't know what Sherlock had seen, but he had recognized the rising panic in his eyes. It was about time to talk, John decided, even if it was only just 5:30 in the morning.

"Wait here, don't move." John stood up and went to the loo, then he put the kettle on and searched for something to eat. When he came back to the bedroom, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs of tea and a plate with toast, Sherlock sat cross-legged on the bed, wrapped in the sheets and watching him with a neutral expression on his face. John put the tray down on the bedside table and made himself comfortable. Then he handed Sherlock one of the mugs, took his own and put the tray with the loaded plate between them on the bed. He observed Sherlock with a thoughtful look..

"Don't," he said softly, and Sherlock's eyebrows rose quizzically. "Locking yourself away from me. We need to be honest with each other." Sherlock nodded, and his expression softened as he relaxed a bit. Sipping his tea, John's gaze shifted to the window, then he stopped short. On the dresser had been stacks of neatly assorted papers before he'd left a few minutes ago, and a gun. He looked questioningly at Sherlock, who had followed his gaze and was staring intently into his cup now.

"Sherlock, the documents and papers on the dresser."

"Yes?"

"What are they about? And where have they gone?"

"Oh, it's nothing. I just sorted out old files and papers. Can burn them later in the fireplace," Sherlock

mumbled vaguely into his cup.

John knew he was lying. And Sherlock knew that John knew. But John let it go this time. Nonetheless, they needed to talk. He tried again.

"What about that gun? How long have you had it?"

"Mycroft has confiscated yours."

John was watching him closely now. "And therefore you got a new weapon? You hadn't had one before. I assume Mycroft didn't know about this one?"

Sherlock still seemed to be fascinated by the tea in his cup and shrugged his shoulders.

"Sherlock, I think we need to talk, don't you?" John insisted.

For a moment nothing happened, then Sherlock's shoulders tightened and he looked challengingly at John. "Well, then let's talk. Why don't you tell me what really happened, why you hid from me for _eight months_." His voice was low and cold, his eyes piercing. Abruptly he stood, his whole body tense, pacing in the small space between the window and the door. Four steps back and forth, again and again. There was nothing left of the vulnerable and desperate Sherlock from last night. Now he was merely angry and cold. John had rarely seen him like this in all the years they had been together.

Obviously Sherlock thought that offence was the best defence, and John was startled at the sudden cold and aggression that hit him. He searched for words to explain that he hadn't hidden from Sherlock, when he went on. "I thought you were dead. I've been searching for you everywhere, Mycroft and his minions have been searching for you. For weeks. Then we were told that there was no way you could still be alive, so Mycroft stopped the investigations. I didn't. I didn't want to believe that ..." His voice broke, his anger had subsided. He had stopped in front of the window; now he turned around and stared at John with that desperate look that almost broke John's heart.

With a few steps, John was beside him. He cupped Sherlock's face and stroked his thumbs over his cheekbones. Sherlock had closed his eyes, but he didn't move. "Sherlock, please look at me. Please!" John's voice was very small and very quiet. He was anxious, didn't know if Sherlock would understand him, if he would forgive him. But he wanted to try, wanted to try to explain to him what had happened, at least as far as he himself understood it.

Sherlock opened his eyes; he had regained his composure when John started to talk. "Oh Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you and I never wanted to hide from you. Let me try ... I want to ... come, sit." With a sigh he ran his hands slowly down Sherlock's shoulders and arms, then he grabbed his hands and pulled him by his wrists to the bed, where he released him and they both sat down. John bent one leg to face Sherlock.

He longed to hold Sherlock's hand, but didn't dare, so he stared at his own entangled hands in his lap. And then John began to tell him; from his first awakening on the beach, how Mike had found him, of his amnesia, his life on the Island, his doubts how he'd forgotten everything except the present, how he'd suppressed any thought of his unknown previous life. When he spoke of the latter, he flung apologetic and uncertain glances at Sherlock.

"I'm really sorry, Sherlock. I know if I had gone to the police immediately they certainly would have brought me back within a very short time. I don't know why I had acted that way. I can't explain it; at that time it just seemed to be the only way. I had lost everything, and this feeling was all I had left. I had to try ... to trust myself, my gut instinct, when I had no memory of who I was. I don't know how to explain it better." While John spoke, Sherlock had taken his left hand and drew almost absently with his thumb small circles on the back of the hand, staring into space.

"For a short while I thought I might be a smuggler, or perhaps a criminal, but Mike said that he couldn't believe that. Well, if he had considered me a criminal, he would hardly have let me live in his house," he added after a pause with an uncertain smile.

Sherlock had become very quiet. He squeezed John's hand a little tighter. "I think I can help you with this point," he interjected quietly. John looked up at him in surprise. "How so?"

"That day, when you had left to go on this fishing boat, we had a fight. Yeah, I know, we often argue, but this time it was different. _You_ were different. And I wasn't sure if you would come back home after that tour." Sherlock's voice was only a whisper. "It's not your fault. Although you had lost your memory, your feelings were still the same, and your feelings told you that it didn't matter who you were or where you were... The main thing for you was that you were not where you had come from. The main thing to you was that you were not with me." The realisation made Sherlock swallow hard, he was still holding John's hand in his own and now he stared at their clasped hands.

John scowled. Of course Sherlock had driven him often to the brink of despair over the past ten years, but he couldn't imagine a scenario where he would really leave this idiot. It was more likely that Sherlock had misinterpreted his behaviour. Angry - yes. Pissed off - yes. Mad as hell - oh yes, often enough. Resigned - sometimes, even if it had become rarer over the years. But leaving Sherlock? - No, never! Yet, he had never said so, and although Sherlock had got better in his observation skills about their relationship, it happened again and again that he interpreted something completely wrong.

The fight, yes, the memories slowly came back to him. The quarrel they had had before he -

It hadn't been just the boat ride, it had been much more. John had felt trapped in their relationship; Sherlock had always mocked his work. Not that that had been something new. He had also never understood why John spent precious hours with boring sick people rather than with him. And even though they had been together for more than a decade, and John should have grown accustomed to the snappy remarks, it still did hurt. Sherlock had another side to him, of course; he could be loving and affectionate, sure. But Sherlock's habit to mock the hospital, John's colleagues and friends, his manuscript, simply everything that was important to John; and his way of taking John, and all he did for Sherlock, for granted; suddenly this had crossed a line John hadn't even known had been there.

But obviously it had been there. John closed his eyes, he remembered everything now. He had stood in the doorway and gathered his wits briefly_. This has to stop!_ Then he had told Sherlock, very calmly, that they would talk later and that something would have to change. Of course he knew that Sherlock hated these conversations like the plague, and Sherlock's uncomprehending gaze and the way he had questioned what John was talking about, hadn't really helped. _"I mean exactly what I've said. I can not and I will not go on like this, Sherlock. Sometimes I wonder how you can bear to be with such a silly, simple, boring man like me. And then I wonder whether I can demand this of you any longer."_ He heard his own words echoing in his head. Oh God, had he really said that?

He had felt miserable, empty and burnt out. Sherlock had made that morning more than a few inappropriate remarks about silly childhood memories and something similar, before he had dissected John's manuscript for his new book. Eventually even John's patience was at an end. He had wondered why he'd been such a fool to believe that Sherlock would need him. After all these years together he had doubted. Not his love for Sherlock, he knew that it would never change, that was part of his problem. But he'd doubted his ability to endure and compensate Sherlock's moods. Maybe he was just too old. He had felt old that day in the door to the hallway. Too old for Sherlock and his whims.

That could be an explanation, possibly; but who could ever tell. And it didn't matter anymore, not to him. He was home and he definitely knew that he didn't want to be anywhere else.

"I ... I remember now, and I'm sorry for what I said. Back then, in that moment, it was all too much. But, Sherlock, I also remember our years together, our life together. Whatever the problem was, I'm sure we'll solve it, together, as we've always done. Maybe I needed this break, maybe you're right and my subconscious didn't want to come home; but I'm here now, and there's no place on earth I would rather be. I've learned a lot during this time, about myself and about people."

As the silence continued and Sherlock made no move to say anything, John was getting nervous.

"Sherlock." John's finger brushed Sherlock's jaw line and lifted his chin slightly until Sherlock was looking at him. "Do you want me back then?" he asked quietly.

"Of course I do!" John could almost hear the 'idiot' and a grin flashed over his face. So he was finally back, the impatient, eyes-rolling Sherlock.

John waited, but nothing happened. Sherlock looked at him uncertainly and John sighed heavily. Really, did he have to do everything himself? He wrapped a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him close. "Idiot," he muttered fondly, and then he kissed him tenderly. Sherlock's lips curled into a smile before he let go and fell completely into the kiss.

John cupped Sherlock's face with his hands and pushed him back a little so that he could look into his eyes. "I love you, Sherlock," he whispered. "You are my life, my world." For a while there was silence and none of them moved. Then Sherlock replied, just as softly. "As you are my life, John. I realised that in the last few months." Sherlock broke off abruptly and lowered his gaze, as if he had said too much, and John hesitated for a moment. There was something else, something Sherlock was hiding from him.

Sherlock kissed him and slid his hands under John's t-shirt. "I want to rediscover you, John, every inch of your body," he whispered in his ear and traced John's neckline with his lips. With a soft sigh, John tilted his head to the side to give Sherlock better access to his throat, then he lost himself entirely in the sensations that Sherlock's hands, lips and teeth left on his skin until his whole mind was filled with 'Sherlock'.


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